


Sugar

by JyrusQuash



Category: Carmilla (Web Series)
Genre: F/F, Fluff and Humor, Friendship/Love, a bit of self-deprication, famous af
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-05
Updated: 2019-09-05
Packaged: 2020-10-10 13:21:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,524
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20528705
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JyrusQuash/pseuds/JyrusQuash
Summary: Laura is having trouble with her unrequited crush. Holstein AU.





	Sugar

**Author's Note:**

> The song "Sugar" By Brockhampton is what inspired this song. It's really chill, y'all should listen to it.

** Sugar **

_A Carmilla Fanfiction_

_(Inspired by the song “Sugar” by Brockhampton)_

**Part I.**

_“Spendin' all my nights alone, waiting for you to call me_  
You're the only one I want by my side when I fall asleep  
Tell me what I'm waiting for, tell me what I'm waiting for  
I know it's hard but we need each other  
Know it's hard but we need each other…”

It never made sense to you, did it? Did it ever? Did it ever occur to you, and your stupid irrational brain, that falling for the unattainable had no profits? For real, Laura; what’s wrong with you? You’re an independent woman. You’ve completed your postsecondary education all on your own. You’ve single-handedly taken down one of the biggest corporate names in the history of, well, ever! You’ve managed to make it 27 years, without fucking up anything (too badly). So, tell yourself; why the hell are you lounging off of the edge of your sofa (which you purchased ON YOUR OWN), in your loft (ALSO BOUGHT ON YOUR OWN) like a sad sloth clown?

Oh, right.

Because your stupidly hot, goddamn, crush is on a business trip with some equally stupidly hot person. What the hell are you even thinking, Laura? Why did you think you had a chance with a fashion prodigy? She’s got an eye for good taste and colours while you’ve only got an eye for tasty, glutinous, treats.

Your boring ass, politically charged, journalism job isn’t something that would ever interest her. Also on that note, your Wonder Woman sock collection is way too lame to even think about.

Carmilla had always been way too cool and way out of your league. Your damn friendship didn’t even start off in the most ideal way. Your first job, fresh out of university, was working for the stupid paparazzi, interviewing celebrities candidly. You were just around so often that she eventually got used to you being annoying. The kickstarter to all this madness was when she got into a fight with one of the Kardashians over some trademark clothing issue, and you were summoned to get the details. You and a few other magazine people were at the end of the fashion mogul’s driveway when some other paparazzi guy accidentally slammed his camera into your face. The next thing you knew, you were in Carmilla Karnstein’s $50,000,000 mansion with her hovering over you with an ice pack. Your eye was so bad that she kept you hidden and pitied your choice of clothing.

_“There’s no way they let you wear sweats to these things,”_ she had said, coming back into the room you were in. The fashion designer was carrying a bunch of new merch from her streetwear collection. You’re so awestruck, and in the moment, that you can still remember the specialized box for the Fall 2018 “Karnage” line. It was mostly black, but the lining along the interior of the box was neon orange. You distinctly remember telling her that you had no real uniform for this kind of work and that you couldn’t even afford to look at these clothing items. She looked at you, as if you were completely stupid, and said _“Well duh. I’m giving these to you.”_

After that night, everything kind of fell into place. She liked talking to you (at least you though so, because she wasn’t always scowling at you. It was more of a blank expression, which was basically a smile). You suddenly became her personal Public Relations/Social Media person. When she heard about your current salary at the paparazzi joint, she doubled it. _“No one, associated with me, can work under those stupid leeches.”_ She told you as you signed away your life to her.

You worked under her for about a year, when you finally got your big break. Turns out her brother, William, and her sister, Mattie, became suspicious of their head office. William and Mattie worked for their mother, Lilita Morgan, who was in a close business partnership with a company known as Corvae. They had a feeling that their mother was being threatened and asked you, and your first year investigative foundations course knowledge, to help them out. Carmilla was worried about you getting involved, and sent you away with a specialized team of media professionals:

  1. S. Lafontaine – Technology Extraordinaire
  2. Lola Perry – Private Investigator
  3. Wilson Kirsch – Ex. Military, Licensed Bodyguard
  4. Melanippe Callis – Ex. CNN Report Analyst
  5. Betty Spielsdorf – not sure what her actual title is, but she worked for Vice

You really had no idea why she was giving all of this to you, but her only reply was _“Cupcake, you’re paranoid. Just trust me; you’re my dearest friend”_. God, that memory still fucks you up. You didn’t want to be her friend; you wanted to be her everything, because that’s who she was to you.

Ugh, pathetic.

Anyway, you almost died, but you took down Corvae and managed to free Carmilla’s mom’s company. Carmilla was extremely mad at you for almost dying. She didn’t talk to you for about a week. She eventually stopped ignoring you, conveniently before Shark Week started.

Now, you’re working as an editor and writer for the Bureau of Investigative Journalism. Your favourite section is the one called Corporate Watch. It’s your favourite for obvious reasons. Anyway, we’re getting a little off topic.

Last week, Carmilla had invited you to come to Ibiza with her for a private launch week, featuring Lady Gaga, but you had to stay back and work. The Bureau was overflowing with new stories and you had to interview every single author of each journal entry, before publication. Part of your job was to make sure that everyone’s sources were legit and that nothing was misconstrued.

Carmilla was a little peeved that you turned her down, but you were trying not to be too distracted by her. She had been going on dates with people, and leaving you behind, so why should you be the first one with your foot in the door? You felt kind of bad that you two were sort of fighting, but that’s how it was going to be if she wasn’t returning your affections.

So, this is why you were lying down, on your sofa, sulking as the rain pounded against your windows. It had been just under a week, and Carmilla hasn’t even texted you about anything. You thought that she was above being petty, but she kept posing for pictures with Danny Lawrence; the stupid professional tennis player who had been stealing your girl away for years. Carmilla told you that they used to be on and off again, but that was _“So last year”_. You aren’t convinced that it’s really over between them, and that only makes your heartache more painful. You can’t even be bothered with making dinner, so you just hope that your stomach won’t hate you tomorrow morning.

You allowed yourself to check your phone, one last time, before letting yourself fall asleep in misery.

**Part II.**

_“But when I love you right, I love you right_  
I'm by your side  
But I'll make it bright, baby, I want you to know  
I'ma be there for you, I'ma make you see that  
I want you, I want you…”

You wake up and, just as you’ve guessed, your stomach is killing you because its been empty for more than four hours. You sit up and pull the hem of your sleeping shirt down, to cover your midriff a little more. It doesn’t really matter, since you’re alone. As you yawn and look around the loft, you notice that the sun has barely come up, since you fell asleep like a sad person and forgot to draw the blinds.

After stretching a little more, you finally get your lazy ass up to make some coffee or something else seemingly adult-like. Your phone is still on the sofa because you don’t think anyone’s going to actually call you. It’s Tuesday. The only person who would call you is your dad, asking if you’re alive, or Kirsch, asking if you want to scope out babes at the dog park. Speaking of which, you might actually take him up on his offer. Your dog might be a little bored of being cooped up in here with your sad ass. You begin to look around for your little marshmallow cloud.

“Bridget!” you call out, listening for the pitter-patter of freshly trimmed paws on the hardwood. “Bridge; time for food!” as soon as food is mentioned, the little dog comes bounding in from the master bedroom. She sleeps in it with or without you.

Bridget is a Coton de Tuléar, which is French for “fucking expensive”. She wasn’t even your dog to begin with; as a gift for helping him during fashion week, Demna Gvasalia, Artistic Director of Balenciaga, gave her a little white puppy. Her maids didn’t really take care of the poor thing properly, so you offered to take her. It worked out because the little devil loves you. She’s only about 7 months old, but you feel like she’s been here, with you, for years.

“Hey, baby girl,” you say, crouching down to pick her up. She hops, eagerly, into your arms and starts to lick your face while you attempt to be productive. “Yes, yes – ha! – good morning to you too, Princess.” Although it’s more difficult to maneuver around your kitchen space, you love holding your happy little puppy.

After a few minutes, she gets restless so you set her back down onto the floor. You hear her little paws padding away, as you begin to open her fancy canned breakfasts. Carmilla had insisted on feeding her premium wet dog food for breakfast, with a side of a well-done egg. There is no reason for this other than _“Our little angel only eats the best.”_Thank the universe that Carm pays for her food, because there ain’t no way in hell that you can afford to feed the little snowball; even with your new permanent job.

You’re not really in the mood for a big breakfast, so you decided you’ll have some toast and cook two eggs; one for you and one for the spoiled brat. You just finished cooking an egg for the both of you when you hear your phone start to vibrate against one of the sofa cushions. You also hear Bridget hop up onto the couch and start to bark at it.

_Crap._

Bridget only barks at your phone when Carm calls because the fashion designer’s face pops up and illuminates the screen. Although you take care of Bridget, she’s still Carmilla’s baby – which makes your situation a little worse.

You quickly turn off the stove and rush over to where your phone is still ringing. It stops for a second, but Carmilla starts to call a second time.

_Fuck, what does she want?_

Once you reach your phone, you have to fight Bridget away from the device.

“Bridge!” you whine, as the phone stops and then starts ringing again, “Bridge, I’ll let you talk to your mom, if you get off my damn phone!” she’s only a dog, but somehow you know she understands you on a deeper level. Still hyperactive, she backs away from the smartphone and just stares at you; waiting for you to answer it. You shake your head as you slide your finger across the screen and lift the device to your ear. “Yo.”

“Don’t ‘yo’ at me, Laura,” Carmilla chastises through the phone, “that’s such an unprofessional greeting.” You roll your eyes because this isn’t the first time she’s complained about ‘your colloquial language habits’.

“I know, but I also know that it’s frickin’ _you_ who’s calling me!” You tell her. There’s an offended gasp on the other end.

“Hey! I’m a business woman!”

“Who is off the clock and calling a _friend!_” ugh. Even when you emphasize the word, it still tastes like dirt in your mouth. “So, what’s up?” you honestly don’t know what has prompted her into talking to you. She hadn’t messaged you when she got to Ibiza, and she didn’t like any of your pictures of Bridget on Instagram. You’re worried because if she called you while she was ignoring you, she may be in trouble.

There’s a moment of silence on her end. You figure she didn’t hear you so you open your mouth to try again, but she cuts you off. “What are you doing, tonight?” this question catches you off guard.

“Tonight?” you ask, looking at the digital clock near the television. Ibiza was about 8 and a half hours away, by plane, so you didn’t know what she wanted to accomplish. “Like,_ tonight_, tonight?”

“Yes, Cupcake,” she answers exasperatedly. “Tonight.”

“Aren’t you in Ibiza?”

“I came back, last night.”

_Oh._

“Oh.” You had no idea that was coming. “I thought you were going to be there, until Sunday night?”

There’s another brief silence before she sighs. “Yeah, I just wasn’t having any fun without my Creampuff.” You feel your heart swell at her words, but you know that it’s not what you want it to mean. “But yes, what are you doing tonight? Are you busy?”

“Uh…pfft…” you briefly think about lying, to avoid juicy hook-up gossip about Danny, but she is your close friend and you did miss her. “Uh…not really…what were you thinking about doing?”

“Um…uh…mmm – well –!” she started stumbling over her words which was something very uncharacteristic of the world-renowned fashion icon. You were worried, but jumped right into comic relief.

“Carm, are you stuttering?” when she doesn’t respond you say, “blink twice if you understand where I’m going with this.” At that last part, she breaks into a whimsical symphony of laughter.

“You idiot,” she heaves, “you wouldn’t be able to tell if I was blinking through the phone.” You’re a little less paranoid, knowing that she wasn’t, in fact, being held at gun-point. 

“Yeah, yeah,” you try not to get too distracted by her musical laughter, but fail miserably. “I don’t got all day, Carm; what are you planning?” there was some more silence before she finally began to answer your question. This was all just super odd, and you hoped that Danny didn’t break her heart again. You swore, the last time she did, that you’d buy a body bag.

“Well, I was thinking you should come over…”

The sentence kind of fell off so you asked, “And…?”

“That’s it.” She tells you, plainly, “I just want you to come over.” Confused by the nature of this invite, yet bored and excited to see her, you agree willingly and without further protest.

“Oh. Okay then. Sure!” before you could cut the conversation, so your smelly and sad ass could shower, you remembered a promise. Sighing, you press ‘speaker’ on your phone and toss it beside you, in front of Bridget. “Before you go, talk to Bridge please.” There’s some barking as Carmilla says;

“BRIDGEY! How’s my petite guimauve?” more barking ensues while you close your eyes and listen to Carm’s voice.


End file.
